


An Extra-Ordinary (Love) Life

by amfiguree



Category: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Popslash, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Avengers universe. Nick is Buzzkill, Justin is his handler, fake dating and feelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Extra-Ordinary (Love) Life

The best part about the Avengers showing up to stop the alien invasion in Manhattan - and blowing the lid on the whole 'superheroes _do_ exist' thing - is the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. finally decides to unmask a couple of their other Genetically Enhanced Agents. Including Nick. (Which means getting rid of the fake mustache, and the bald cap, and the goddamn _prosthetic nose_ , thank _fuck_.)  
  
The worst part about the Avengers showing up to stop the alien invasion in Manhattan, and Nick's subsequent unmasking, is that pictures start to turn up. The media has a fucking field day; he crashes the websites of three major news networks. And, yeah, being continuously stalked by media vultures armed with stupid questions and video cameras isn't his idea of a cakewalk, but. There are _pictures_.  
  
Of _him_.  
  
On a _classified mission_ dealing with _classified information_ , and--  
  
"Doing obscene--"  
  
" _Really_ obscene," Justin corrects.  
  
" _Classified_ ," Nick snaps, as he throws another bolt of electricity at the Giant Alien Robot hand in his current trajectory.  
  
"--classified, obscene things to Timberlake's mouth," Lance finishes blithely (because of course the most fucking unsympathetic agent in all of fucking S.H.I.E.L.D. is there too, monitoring him over Justin's shoulder).  
  
Nick glowers as he says, "Fuck off," and shoots off another electric bolt. He'd tell Lance to get the hell off his comm line - because, hey, he's not Nick's fucking handler - but it's an old argument by now and since Giant Alien Robot doesn't seem to be going down without a fight, Nick lets it go.  
  
"At least they got your good side," Justin offers. "It could be worse." And then, in exactly the same tone, "Incoming. Two o'clock."  
  
"Yeah," Nick says, as he ducks and rolls out of the way of a Giant Alien Robot foot. "Yeah, because it's not an _actual emergency_ unless there's a sex tape involved."  
  
Lance lets out a long, mock-breathy sigh. "I don't need a tape, but do you think there are more photos, at least? I seem to recall a particularly handsy night in the supply closet."  
  
Nick is going to _maim_ him. "How the hell do you know about--" It hits Nick, then, and fuck, he's going to maim the _both_ of them. " _Justin_."  
  
"You know, the point is to _not_ give Buzzkill a hernia while he's trying to save Long Island," Justin interrupts mildly, as Nick shoots off another blast of electricity. This time, Giant Alien Robot whines, gratifyingly, in protest.  
  
"If I wanted to do that, I would've brought up the incident in the air vent. Or the lab. Or the back alley after that work par--" Lance breaks off. Nick hears a dull thud, and then, "Use your _words_ , infant."  
  
Nick hopes Justin chose the Captain America paperweight . (He's been spending too much time training with Agent Coulson.)  
  
Another thud, and that must be the heavy-duty stapler. "Fuck you."  
  
"Been there, done that," Lance singsongs. "Couldn't pay me to do it again."  
  
"Careful, Bass," Justin says, warningly. "I have a million voltage living, breathing stun gun and I'm not afraid to use him."  
  
Nick actually laughs then, caught off-guard, as he takes a Giant Alien Robot hand clean off.  
  
"All right, Buzzkill," Justin says, then, a self-satisfied grin in his voice that's impossible to miss, "let's wrap it up here."

"About time," Lance says. "It's almost like you were distracted. If Richardson were here, he'd have taken you both off the field."

Nick rolls his eyes, ignores the brief second of static that comes through his earpiece as he sends a blast of power straight through Giant Alien Robot's head. He backs up a step as the rest of the robot crumples at his feet. Nick nudges it with a toe for good measure, then says, "There, done. How are we celebrating?"  
  
"How do you wanna celebrate?" Justin asks, sly, and for a second it's like they're still on a - on their classified mission, like Justin's going to tip his head up and lean over three drinks in, like he's going to make that noise, low in his throat, and slant their mouths together, hard and hot and wet, a prelude to pressing Nick back against the bathroom door and going to his knees--  
  
Lance lets out a huff of breath, but there's a sharpness to it that Nick doesn't appreciate. "Maybe you two should work on that sex tape after all, Agent."  
  
"And maybe," Justin says, conversationally, "Buzzkill should report back to base for live target practice."  
  
  
  
That should be the end of that (aside from Lance threatening revenge, which Nick might take more seriously if he were Fury or, at the very least, a senior agent, but he's not). Except three new photos surface the next week, each one more intimate than the last--  
  
\--Justin's head tipped back on Nick's shoulder as he pushes his hips into Nick's hand and Nick mouths secrets into the curve of his neck--  
  
\--Justin laughing as Nick reaches for him over the top of his cubicle, eyes flashing bright and wicked--  
  
\--Justin's warm smile half-lit in the candlelight and the soft gleam of cutlery, their knuckles brushing at the center of the table, their heads bent low--  
  
\--and the media fucking laps it up, makes Nick front-page material three days running, because none of them stop to think of what this actually means, the hows and the whos and the _whys_.  
  
That's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s job ( _Justin's_ job, apparently, because he's the only one looking through the photos when Nick storms onto base).  
  
"Hey," Justin says, brow unfurrowing as Nick slides onto his desk.  
  
"We missed someone," Nick says without preamble. "When we rounded them up in the lab--"  
  
"You don't know that," Justin interrupts. He's still shuffling the photos like that's going to make everything make sense, but he's not looking at them anymore. "We're hot. We made a hot couple. Some people like that."  
  
"I'd take deranged psychopathic villain over crazed stalker," Nick says, mulishly. "And I still think we missed someone."  
  
Justin pushes the photos aside and drops half the contents of his inbox over them before Nick can try to snatch them away. "It's just a couple of pictures, Nick. Pictures I had to beg _PR_ to send over. No one even came to talk to me about it." He shrugs. "Someone probably thinks it's sweet, seeing a famous superhero openly dating his regular civilian boyfriend."  
  
There are so many things that are wrong with that statement. Nick settles for, " _Civilian_. Right."  
  
"As far as they know," Justin says. His eyes are hooded when Nick glances at him, and for a moment Nick thinks he's going to--  
  
But something must shift in Nick's face, because Justin leans back in his seat, and then the moment's gone, and Justin's grinning again. "Does it really matter anyway? Small step for Buzzkill, big step for equal rights, you know the drill. The media's going to move on in two minutes and forget all about it."  
  
Nick casts another dark look at the stack of paperwork obscuring the photos.  
  
"Nick," Justin says, lobbing an errant paperweight at him -- and seriously, where does he keep _getting_ those? "Quit it with the paranoia, it'll be _fine_."  
  
  
  
Justin's wrong: it's not fine.  
  
Justin's wrong, and Nick's right; and normally, that's the way Nick likes it.  
  
And this time would be no different from normal, if Nick wasn't only right in all the ways it doesn't matter. Because he's wrong, too, where it counts; the worst part about the Avengers showing up to stop the alien invasion in Manhattan - far and away the _actual_ worst part - is when Justin gets kidnapped.  
  
And Nick doesn't even _realize_ there's been a kidnapping till he's called out to take care of an armed robbery over in Brooklyn. He's directed to the side entrance when he arrives on the scene, and then it's Lance in his ear, saying, "There are four of them, all armed. Nine hostages in the manager's office. You get one shot to bring this side of the roof down. Try not to miss."  
  
"It was one fucking time," Nick gripes as he eyes the building, weighing his chances. "And where the hell is Justin?"  
  
"Not here," Lance says. "He hasn't been in in a couple of days."  
  
Nick doesn't miss that time, but it's a close thing. His throat is tight.  
  
"He asked for a couple of days off."  
  
And that's when Nick knows, _knows_ , without a shadow of a doubt, that Justin's in trouble. Because Justin doesn't _do_ off-days. He's never, in his three and a half years as Nick's handler, asked for an off-day.  
  
There'd been a lead in the photos. There must have been. And he'd tried to steer Nick clear of it so he could look into it himself. And now he's not at work.  
  
Amidst the dust and debris from the wrecked ceiling, officers trekking dirt and blood where they're cuffing the robbers and pulling them into squad cars, Nick says, "I want a meeting with Fury."  
  
  
  
There is no meeting with Fury.  
  
Nick thinks harshly that if Fury still had both his fucking eyes, he'd be able to at least keep one on something _other_ than the fucking Avengers Initiative.  
  
Goddammit, he'd _known_ the con was a bad idea. Long cons are _always_ bad ideas. Especially ones that involve literally fucking your handler - _pretending_ you're fucking your handler, what-fucking-ever. (Which hadn't been Sitwell's express orders, but Nick isn't sure what other implicit instruction he was expected to take from, "Get Colton to sell you one of his prostitutes.")  
  
( _Everyone_ knows the type of clientele Colton sells to. Had sold to.)  
  
Justin hadn't liked it either, had demurred and rallied and offered other solutions, till Sitwell had folded his arms and tilted his head at Nick and said, "We can replace Agent Timberlake if you're agreeable, Carter."  
  
Nick watched Sitwell watch Justin's hands curl into fists. Sitwell turned back to Justin, asked pleasantly, "Problem, Agent Timberlake?"  
  
"Only when my ability to perform is called into question," Justin said coolly, eyes narrowed. "Sir."  
  
"I believe the only person calling that into question here is you," Sitwell replied. Nick didn't try very hard to bite back his smirk, and Justin sat back down and flicked a pencil at him under the table.  
  
He'd said, "No, sir," one last time, and then everything became a blur of, "Yes, sir," and, "Of course, sir," and Nick had nodded and pretended to pay attention when he should have been listening a little harder to the, "No, sir."  
  
Because Justin had _clearly_ had the right idea. Justin, who is a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, who is kind of a fucking badass besides, who just shut down the _biggest gay prostitution ring_ in the United States, who is currently _missing_ , and who isn't valued enough as an agent to warrant five minutes of Nick Fury's fucking time. Or Sitwell's. Or even _Lance's_ , who only pops into the meeting room twice to say, "You're not getting that meeting," and "He hasn't been _kidnapped_ , Nick; he's on a fucking _vacation_. Go home."  
  
  
  
Nick doesn't know how long he's in there before his body starts to get antsy, blood buzzing uncomfortably under his skin. He wouldn't leave, except he taps his fingers against the table too hard and hears a sizzle at the contact. The glass is already splintering as he pushes away from the table.  
  
He cracks _and_ overheats his cell phone in the time it takes for him to get home (which is just fucking great, and _exactly what he needs_ right now). But it doesn't matter, as it turns out, because all his calls are directed straight to Justin's voicemail.  
  
  
  
Nick stays up all night pretending to watch re-runs of Battlestar Galactica.  
  
9am hits, and Justin still hasn't called him back.  
  
On his TV, the Avengers save Manhattan. Again.  
  
Nick flicks his fingers at the screen and leaves it smoking.  
  
  
  
And then it's forty-six hours later, and Justin's voicemail is full. And he's still not back at S.H.I.E.L.D. Buzzkill hasn't been called in for duty, either, and it doesn't look like anything's going to crop up. Which would usually be a good thing, because Nick really likes his downtime, _hoards_ it, and not having to be around people is a definite bonus. Except Justin's still missing and no one else seems to _give a shit_ , and Nick goes a little stir-crazy trying not to think about it.  
  
He almost lets a stray kitten drown because he doesn't notice it the first time he walks past the waterlogged ditch, and then almost _electrocutes it_ when his fingers spark as he hurries back to scoop it up, fuck. He doesn't even fucking _like_ kittens.  
  
("You're kind of an asshole," Justin had said on their third mission-mandated date, the first time Nick told him about his aversion to cats. (Animals.) (Most living organisms, really.)  
  
"I really hope that wasn't you flirting," Nick deadpanned.  
  
"Shut up," Justin said, but he was laughing, and Nick grinned.)  
  
Nick closes his eyes on a breath, and when he opens them again, there's a split second where he thinks about bringing the kitten home with him.  
  
Jesus Christ, he's a mess.  
  
  
  
"I need Justin's number."  
  
Lance doesn't even look up from his computer. "You weren't called back to base."  
  
Nick glares at the back of Lance's head. "I don't need to be called back to base to come in. I need Justin's number."  
  
"You _have_ Justin's number."  
  
"But he's not _answering_."  
  
Lance hums noncommittally. "Yeah, well. People don't usually take their work phones with them when they're _on vacation_."  
  
"Or when they're in _trouble_ ," Nick snaps. "Look, I don't have any of his other numbers, and none of you seem to give a shit that he's missing. So just fucking give me his number, or his address, and I'll check on him myself!"  
  
Lance does turn, this time, arms spread in disbelief. "His _address_? You know I can't do that. What the fuck is wrong with you?"  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with _you_?" Nick counters.  
  
" _Nick_!" For a second, Lance looks like he's going to throw something. Fucking Justin. "Stop, for fuck's sake. He asked for time--"  
  
"Justin doesn't _ask for time_."  
  
"--just give it to him," Lance finishes, like he hasn't heard. He gives Justin a hard, searching look. "It may not be his thing, but sometimes people need a little space, okay, so give him his space, and let him fucking breathe."  
  
Nick is silent for a second, long enough for Lance to go back to his work. Then, "I still need a number."  
  
"Jesus, Carter!" Lance groans. "Get the fuck out!"  
  
  
  
Nick doesn't get the phone number. But he's pretty sure Lance isn't going to leave him high and dry, not about this, so when Sitwell calls Nick into his office on Thursday, for a second, Nick thinks, _hopes_ \--  
  
But there's no rescue plan on Sitwell's desk, just a standard manila folder. A mission. Nick stares as Sitwell says, "There's been a skirmish in East Timor," and slides it across the table.  
  
Nick exhales, too loud. Thinks about counting to ten. Doesn't. "Are you fucking kidding me with this?"  
  
Sitwell levels a look at him.  
  
Nick narrows his eyes. "Are you. Fucking kidding me. With this," he repeats, teeth clicking. " _Sir_."  
  
Sitwell sits back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Not a fan of East Timor, Carter?"  
  
Nick tries, and fails, to unclench his jaw. "Not without my handler, no."  
  
It's not a lie. Nick doesn't have an opinion on East Timor either way, but he doesn't like going in blind. And that's exactly what going on missions without Justin feels like.  
  
"You'll have a handler," Sitwell says, in a tone that brooks no argument.  
  
Not the one I fucking need, Nick thinks, but what he says is, "With all due respect, sir, I don't work well with Agent Richardson."  
  
That's not a lie, either. Because the fact of the matter is that Nick doesn't work well with anyone. Doesn't _want_ to work well with anyone. Justin's the exception, not the fucking rule.  
  
"You've been temporarily assigned to Agent Richardson while Agent Timberlake is away," Sitwell says, and turns back at his computer. "Figure something out."  
  
Goddammit, Nick is going to _tase_ something. "I don't fucking want to figure something out," he snaps. "I don't want to go to fucking East Timor with Agent Richardson. Agent Timberlake has been missing for _days_ , and the only fucking mission I want is to _find him_."  
  
Sitwell looks up from the computer screen, and then at Nick. "Carter," he says, deliberate and unimpressed. "Are you throwing a hissy fit in my office because your boyfriend would rather be on a cruise to the Bahamas than in the office calling you nicknames over the comm line?"  
  
"He's _missing_ ," Nick says again, insistent. But Sitwell just stares at him and Nick clearly isn't going to fucking get anywhere with this. "Sir," he says, after an interminable moment, and swipes the envelope off the table as he sweeps outside. He waits till he's out of Sitwell's office, off Sitwell's floor, to put his fist through a wall.  
  
Someone's pudding explodes.  
  
  
  
East Timor is a fucking wash.  
  
It's not, technically, Nick's mess. He's doing his fucking job, like he's been asked, saving lives and cats and stopping bank robberies and (because he's not an Avenger, minor) alien invasions, and assisting in kidnapping and assassination attempts. If he spends the two days he's lying in wait for his target in East Timor waiting to hear Justin in his ear, jerking a little every time he gets Richardson instead (because it's wrong, it's _wrong_ , and Justin's still fucking _missing_ ), no one's there to judge him for it.  
  
Or--there wouldn't be if Lance wasn't still fucking hacking into his comm lines, making pointed remarks every time Nick opens his mouth to start a sentence and snap it shut as soon as he remembers it isn't Justin on the other end of the line.  
  
"Go on," Lance says smugly, the third time it happens. "I've been told I do a decent impression of an answering machine."  
  
Nick grits his teeth. "Missing people don't need answering machines."  
  
Lance mutters something that sounds like, "Not this again," and then, louder, "You're a fucking bag of laughs, Buzzkill."  
  
"Agent Bass," Richardson says. "Kindly refrain from harassing my agent."  
  
"No," Nick says. "It's fine. When's the last time you heard from him, Lance? When's the last time he called to check in with you?"  
  
"Buzzkill--"  
  
"Because it's been fucking weeks since _I've_ heard from him, and he hasn't been answering my calls, or checking his voicemail, and he went missing _two days_ after those _fucking photographs_ showed up."  
  
" _Buzzkill_."  
  
"Photographs," Nick says, voice rising, "that I _told you_ were suspicious, by the way, because there was _no reason_ for anyone to have them unless they'd been following us, snapping pictures for four fucking months, so I'm going out on a limb here and saying _we missed someone in Colton's gang_ , and now--"  
  
"Agent Bass," Richardson barks, voice harder this time. "Get off my comm line."  
  
Lance clicks off, uncharacteristically silent, and Nick thinks his head might explode.  
  
"You should be focusing on the mission."  
  
"I think we can agree that Justin is more important than the fucking _mission_ ," Nick grits out. "If someone would just get me a meeting with Fury--"  
  
"Fury doesn't specialize in domestic quarrels," Richardson says, completely unmoved. "And the only thing more important than this mission is the refill of coffee I'm going to need to get through it. In the meantime, Buzzkill, you are going to calm the _fuck_ down, get over your separation anxiety, and _focus_."  
  
"Sir," Nick says, but there's only static, and Nick swears under his breath.  
  
That's when East Timor becomes a fucking wash.  
  
Because Richardson being gone, on top of being really fucking unprofessional, means Nick is alone and seething when Azizmo finally decides to leave his goddamn office building and walk right into Nick's line of sight. "Target sighted," Nick says, and resolutely doesn't blow his headset when there's no answer. "I guess I'm taking the fucking shot then. Enjoy your fucking coffee break."  
  
Azizmo drops as soon as Nick hits him with a blast, only deadly enough to knock him out cold. Richardson still isn't back, but Nick says, "Target down. I'm going in," anyway. He doesn't make it two steps before he hears gunshots, and he drops and rolls till he hits a wall, comes up into a neat crouch to see three bodyguards running to pick Azizmo up, and two more getting out of his car to join them. Bodyguards Richardson should have fucking been there to _warn_ him about, goddammit, and Nick's shot at five more times before he manages to escape the roof to cram himself into the nearest air vent he can find.  
  
It's standard protocol for missions gone rogue, and Nick isn't even breathing hard, but he really fucking _hates_ going in blind.  
  
The last clusterfuck of a mission he was on he'd spent the night curled in an air vent with his hands tucked up against his sides, cool metal digging into his back, Justin's voice low and easy in his ear the whole time. And then Justin had been _there_ , cracking the vent open and hauling Nick out, hands steady and firm when Nick wavered. It felt like the walls were going to close in on him all the way back to base, but he'd let Justin crowd him against the side of the van anyway, pressed hip to thigh to shoulder. Safe.  
  
There is nothing safe about this, though, sitting in the dark, waiting for the telltale signs of fading voices and receding footsteps. It feels like hours before Richardson is back in his ear, saying, "Buzzkill? What the hell is going on?"  
  
"You always this good at your job, Richardson?" Nick hisses. "Azizmo's gone."  
  
"Gone?" Richardson parrots, and then, " _Goddammit_. Buzzkill, report."  
  
"Now?" Nick says, before he can catch himself. "I'm in a fucking _air vent_."  
  
"Boo-fucking-hoo," Richardson says, steel in his voice. "Azizmo's gone, and I need to give Sitwell our next move. So I'll say it again, agent: _report_."  
  
Nick's fingers are pulsing as he shuts his eyes. He is going to fucking kill Sitwell for this, seniority be damned.  
  
He starts talking.  
  
  
  
He doesn't need the trip to medical - he was barely even grazed in the gunfire - but Richardson insists on a full body check-up, Jesus, wants everything by the fucking book, so it's an hour after he gets back to base before he's allowed to finally grab his shit and get back into his own damn clothes. Lance dodges Nick's attempt to corner him - _dick_ \- and Richardson waves him off and orders him home, like they wouldn't have saved the mission from straying off-course if they'd just fucking listened to him in the first place.  
  
He's a little bruised, plenty exhausted, and it's nothing a couple hours of sleep won't fix, but sleep doesn't hold any appeal at all. There's no time for it, not with Justin still gone. And if Lance and Richardson aren't going to help, if Fury's too busy with the fucking Avengers--well. Nick will have to work it out on his own. Because this is all Nick's fucking fault.  
  
Nick'd _recruited_ him.  
  
He hadn't planned it. Had only seen Justin around twice before: once busking in a train station, guitar in his hands, eyes as bright and wild as his smile when Nick threw a couple dollars in his upturned cap; and then hurrying out of a 7-eleven with a coke and a sandwich in his hands, his phone caught between his shoulder and his ear, voice a teasing, wicked hum when he said, "You know you're my favorite caller, Greg. You make me so fucking hot for it. I'm so hard for you right now, I just want your dick in me, _please_ \--"  
  
Nick hadn't stuck around to hear the rest of it.  
  
But they were both in the bank that morning, Nick making his monthly deposit, when three men had stormed in, armed and masked. Nick ducked behind a column as the robbers began herding the bank manager towards the vault, and was in his costume in thirty seconds flat, but by that time, Justin had pissed one of the men off enough to be staring down the barrel of a gun right alongside the bank manager.  
  
Nick had waited for them to leave, disarmed the remaining robber, and then run for the vault. He got there just in time to see Justin shove one robber into a wall, and then get shot in the shoulder before taking out the other. The bank manager was already unconscious, and Justin was pale as Nick stepped into the room to pick her up. "You're gonna need a doctor ASAP," Nick said, like he wasn't the slightest bit awed.

Like he wasn't preening just a little as Justin gaped at him, said, "Oh my god, you're--"

Like he wasn't trying for a hint of dramatic flair as he exited the scene before Justin could finish.  
  
But then it was half an hour later, and he'd handed the situation over to the cops and changed out of his costume (and his face), strolled out the back door of the bank without being seen, and--Justin was still there giving his statement. The ambulances were long gone. "Hey," Nick said. "Hey--"  
  
Justin looked awful when he turned around, rumpled and bloodied, but he broke into a smile when he saw Nick there regardless. "Hey," he said, as Nick stepped closer. "I thought I saw you in there."  
  
"Your shoulder--" Nick said, reaching for it.  
  
Justin stepped back. "It's fine."  
  
"It's not fine--"  
  
"What's not fine," Justin said, with a little laugh, "is that this is the third time I've bumped into the cute guy I keep seeing around and I'm coming off worse than the first two times put together. Story of my life." He shook his head. "I'm Justin, by the way, and we have got to stop meeting like this."  
  
Nick didn't pretend he wasn't staring.  
  
Justin had just mouthed off at armed robbers. Had been _shot_ , and taken them down _anyway_. And he was still right there, eyes as bright and wild as Nick remembered, one hand extended, mouth quirked up in a smile, and adrenaline was a funny thing.  
  
Nick kissed him.  
  
Justin made a startled noise, a quiet huff of breath, and kissed back.  
  
He barely heard the officer say, "So I'll just finish this statement somewhere else," and move off.  
  
Nick fisted a hand in Justin's shirt and pulled him closer, ran his fingers over Justin's shoulders, up his neck and back again, before he remembered the gunshot and made to pull back--  
  
Except. The wound wasn't there.  
  
"You're not--" Nick said, stepping away. Justin was breathing hard, mouth already red and wet, and Nick made himself look away, focused instead on the curve of his knuckle over Justin's shoulder. Justin's _uninjured_ shoulder. "But I saw him _shoot_ you."  
  
Justin wasn't reaching for Nick anymore. "What the hell are you talking about? _No one_ saw--" And then Justin cut himself off. " _You're_ Buzzkill?"  
  
But Nick wasn't even listening, fingers still folded over Justin's shoulder where the wound was supposed to be, _had been_ , thirty minutes ago. "Holy shit," he said. "You have _superpowers_."  
  
"Holy _shit_ ," Justin echoed, looking Nick over with wide, wide eyes. "You're _hot_."  
  
Nick had taken Justin back to base and gotten him a meeting with Fury that afternoon. Needless to say, there hadn't been any dates after that. Not until the Colton mission, at least, and that doesn't - Nick's pretty sure dating under duress negates any date that actually transpires (and it _definitely_ negates the sex), so. The Colton mission doesn't count. Except it counts _enough_ for Justin to fucking go _missing_ , fuck--  
  
The whole thing is Nick's goddamn fault.  
  
Nick digs inside his backpack for his phone, because he needs a starting point, and the only one he's got are those photos, which are back at S.H.I.E.L.D., and Lance may not believe Justin's missing, _in danger_ , but he'll send a couple of fucking photos if Nick asks.  
  
But then Nick actually gets his phone out of his bag, and that's when he sees it: A blank text, seven hours old, and then a second one an hour later.  
  
All it is says is _sorry_.  
  
They're both from Justin.  
  
  
  
Nick tries Justin's phone fourteen times, gets the dial tone fourteen times, before he switches tactics and calls Lance.  
  
"What?" Lance snaps, but the usual edge in his voice is dulled with sleep. "I swear to god, Timberlake, if I--"  
  
"It's me," Nick says, and swallows the panic in his chest because what the _fuck_ has Justin been doing that leaves him sending Lance distress calls at three in the morning?  
  
"What-- _Nick_?" There's shuffling over the line, and then Lance comes back, sounding more alert. "Jesus Christ, now _you too_?"  
  
"Justin's in trouble," Nick snaps. "He just sent me a fucking text and now his phone is fucking dead and--"  
  
"Please tell me you didn't call just to freak out over his _phone_ \--"  
  
"Lance," Nick says, sharply. "You don't - this is my fault, this whole fucking thing, I'm--"  
  
"Nick, Jesus."  
  
Lance sounds almost placating, and Nick's stomach turns over. He doesn't want pity, goddammit. " _I instigated it,_ " Nick snarls. "Okay? On the mission, the first date, that was _me_. This whole thing is _my fault_."  
  
Which isn't - it'd been taking too long, getting through to Colton. They'd been stuck jumping through the same fucking hoop for weeks - "we're just not sure you're the kind of clientele we'd be interested in dealing with," Colton said genially, every time. Sitwell was getting impatient.  
  
 _Nick_ was getting impatient.  
  
"I don't know why he keeps a fucking tail on us if he's not interested in our fucking business," Nick muttered, sending a dark look at the tail in question over the rim of his beer bottle.  
  
"He _is_ interested," Justin pointed out, before pulling another drink. "He just wants to be sure we're legit."  
  
Nick drummed his fingers on the table, a neat string of clicks. "Okay," he said, finally, "then let's fucking make it legit."  
  
Justin raised an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
Nick shrugged. "Let's make it legit."  
  
"Okay," Justin said, amused instead of indulgent. "How?"  
  
Nick looked up, and Justin was watching him, head tipped, warm and fond. It made Nick feel -- it made Nick want to smile. So he did. And then he said, "Wanna get out of here?"  
  
Justin laughed. Stopped when Nick didn't. Said, "You're serious," and looked away when Nick shrugged. He took another swig of his beer, then wet his lips. Took a breath and smiled with too many teeth.  
  
Nick knew a no when he saw one. He glanced back at their tail, aiming a finger at the camera hidden carefully inside his copy of The Economist.  
  
Except Justin said, "Yeah, okay," and Nick's blast went wide, blew the bulb in the hanging lamp two tables over, and then the whole bar was pitch dark.  
  
It took a second, but then Justin laughed. He kept laughing till Nick leaned over and kissed him quiet, hard and relentless. "Do _not_ tell Lance," he said, when he pulled away, and Justin started laughing again, but he was also pulling Nick close, and then out of the bar, and then into their apartment, and--  
  
"Seriously?" Lance snorts, and Nick blinks. "Seriously, Carter, I can't believe you think he wouldn't _tell me_."  
  
Something snaps in Nick's chest. "This isn't _funny_! He sent me a fucking text, saying he was _sorry_. _Sorry_ , Lance, and I can't trace the fucking call! I've tried and tried but his phone is dead and _no one sent a fucking ransom note_."  
  
Nick is pretty much going out of his mind right now because no ransom note leaves him with only a couple of options and none of them are ideal. None of them are _close_ to ideal. Justin is too fucking good at his job to cave to torture, and he is the worst kind of hostage: Nick has watched him shoot himself clean through the stomach _three times_ to get to his captors. Which can only mean, if they haven't gotten a ransom note, can only mean--  
  
Nick scrubs his hands over his face.  
  
"Fuck," Lance says, and then, like he doesn't know what to emphasize, "this cannot be my life."  
  
"We need," Nick says, through a suddenly dry mouth. "We need a plan. I need--"  
  
" _I_ need to not be doing this at three in the fucking morning, Carter," Lance says. "Stop with the damn conspiracy theories. We will talk about this _tomorrow_. In the office."  
  
Lance hangs up.  
  
  
  
They've been in sticky situations before. It's pretty much part of the job description; serve and protect, clean up the government's messes, put your life in danger. Standard mission protocol.  
  
But he'd always been _with_ Justin, before. He'd always--  
  
It's barely been two months since the end of the Colton mission, and he can still see Justin's face, the dried blood and rapidly fading bruises, the easy way he'd said, "Hi pumpkin," as Nick stepped cautiously out onto the roof.  
  
He'd been surrounded by six armed guards, mouth set in a thin line. He nodded his head at Colton. "You might wanna get comfortable. This one's a bit of a monologuer." And then he'd inclined his head a little more, at the water tank behind Colton, and Nick's gut clenched.  
  
"Did you really think you'd be able to pull a fast one on us, gentlemen?" Colton sneered, then, but Nick was already tuning him out, palming at his standard-issue hand grenade; watching Justin tense, muscles flexing.  
  
Justin said, "Nick," before he charged forward, and Nick let loose. The tank exploded, and then there was water everywhere, and Justin was being tackled by a six-man pile-up, Colton thundering instructions to, "fucking get him under control!"  
  
"For the record," Nick yelled, above the roar of water, "this is a _really shitty idea_!"  
  
"I'll put that in my report!" Justin called back, muffled by a beefy arm.  
  
Nick shot a blast of electricity into the water, held it, and the six-man pile-up turned into two, then none at all, and Colton was fucking shrieking--  
  
Justin crumpled, too, but Nick had been there to pick him up, that time.  
  
  
  
Nick blows his phone, and then his laptop, and then his entire fucking fuse box, trying to call Lance back.  
  
Lance never picks up.  
  
He should've pushed the issue, Nick thinks, vaguely. The other night at S.H.I.E.L.D., with Justin, he should've--  
  
Because there isn't a better explanation for those photos, for the source and the timing. But he hadn't said, and now Justin's gone, and _sorry_ , and--  
  
This isn't - it's not fucking _acceptable_. Nick's not going to let it fucking go down like this. He's going back to base. And he's going back ready to fucking storm S.H.I.E.L.D., Sitwell's office, _Fury's_ office, if that's what it'll take to make someone fucking _listen_ \--  
  
"Hey Buzzkill," Justin says.  
  
  
  
Nick's imagined this going down in a variety of different ways, most of them involving blood and torture and at least a couple of fractured ribs. This is decidedly--none of those things. "Justin," he says, when he finds his voice. "Justin, what the _hell_ \--  
  
Justin's sitting on his desk, running his fingers over one edge and along the side. "I hear you've been stirring shit up the past couple of weeks."  
  
Nick can't stop staring. "You were missing."  
  
Justin shakes his head as he huffs out a laugh, more breath than sound. "I really wasn't."  
  
"Yeah," Nick says, dumbly. And, "You've got a tan."  
  
"Oh," Justin says, looking down at himself. "Yeah. I, uh - I ditched the cruise in Nigeria for a jungle safari. Couldn't think with all that water around me."  
  
"And you were mauled by a lion?" Nick hears himself ask, lifting a hand towards the drying blood at the edge of Justin's shirt sleeve. "Ran out of time to change before you came back to work?"  
  
Justin shrugs. "Lance may have thrown Captain America at me when I got in this morning," he admits, nonchalantly. He looks back up at Nick, consideringly. "You called him."  
  
It's Nick's turn to shrug.  
  
Justin slips off his desk. He's still watching Nick, head cocked. "And you lost Azizmo."  
  
"Hey," Nick says, defensively. "Richardson--"  
  
Justin doesn't let him finish before he steps closer. "And you asked for a meeting with Fury."  
  
Nick glances towards Lance's table. "Lance wasn't helpful."  
  
Justin nods. "Sounds about right." He takes another step closer, into Nick's space. "You really thought I was kidnapped?" Nick doesn't answer, but he doesn't step away, and Justin's mouth flickers upwards. "Should I be insulted?"  
  
"Jesus Christ, Justin," Nick snaps. "What was I _supposed_ to think? With the fucking pictures turning up, and then you fucking _disappearing_ , and I couldn't reach you on the phone--"  
  
"About that," Justin says. You flooded my inbox. "  
  
Nick is _seriously_ going to tase him. "Right," he says icily, "yeah, sorry about that, I might have panicked when I thought you were _dead_." He can see it the moment Justin wavers, smile dissolving into actual concern, and Nick can't fucking deal with that right now. He looks away. "You couldn't just tell me about the cruise?"  
  
"Nick," Justin sighs. Stops. Licks his lips. "I was taking time off."  
  
Nick snorts. "You don't "take time off"."  
  
"I do when Fury personally suggests I should," Justin says. He shrugs at the look Nick gives him. "He said my performance was declining after my stint in the hospital, and that I needed to get it together." For the first time, Justin can't quite meet Nick's eyes. "Anyway. I would've called you last night but you were on a mission, and then I pretty much passed out in bed, and my phone died, so I figured I'd just see you here." His mouth quirks, amused again. "I didn't think you'd call _Lance_."  
  
"You sent me a fucking cryptic text!" Nick says, accusingly. And then, "So the photos were really just--"  
  
"I told you," Justin grins, "we made a hot couple, and people like that. You're just paranoid."  
  
"Occupational hazard," Nick grouses. He puts a careful hand on Justin's shoulder, though, holds him still while he searches his face. "So--did it help? Are you, uh, together?"  
  
"Sure," Justin says, easily, but he's already stepping back, smile slipping a little. Nick tightens his grip, unthinkingly, and Justin's smile drops. Nick lets him go.  
  
Justin turns away, then, but Nick can see him tensing, like he's waiting for another water tank to explode. "Look, Nick, I'm getting there. Okay? I'm pulling it together, I'll keep it together, and I won't take another fucking two-week vacation to do it. But it would help if you stopped fucking sending me mixed fucking signals every time I--"  
  
"What," Nick says. "When have I _ever_ \--"  
  
"I get it," Justin grits out, without turning back around. "It was the mission, right? It was the fucking _alcohol_. I get it. You were doing your job. And I got in over my head. I thought--" Justin stops, abruptly, and then he's backing away, putting more distance between them as he shakes his head. When he speaks up again, it's hesitant, like every word out of his mouth is a physical ache. "But I get it now, okay? You want things to go back to normal, I get it. Consider it done."  
  
Nick can't believe what he's hearing. "Why the _fuck_ would you think--"  
  
Justin wheels around, then, fists clenched, eyes flashing. "I was in the _hospital_ , Nick! I have super fucking healing, and I was in the _hospital_ , and you didn't visit me fucking _once_! And when I got back on base, you acted like we weren't - like you--"  
  
"I _put_ you in the hospital!" Nick snarls. Justin stares at him, unmoving. "How the fuck could I _visit_ when I--"  
  
"Buzzkill," Lance says, loudly, from the other side of the office doors. "Timberlake. They need you out there."  
  
  
  
It's a mothership of flying saucers this time, seemingly determined to raze Queens to the grounds through sheer quantity alone. They're not particularly fast, or smart, or ammunition-heavy, but it does mean Nick spends the better part of the next three hours listening to Justin say, "Eight o'clock," and, "Watch your left," and, "There's four more behind them."  
  
The mothership slows down a little, after that, not by much, but enough for Nick to breathe a little. He's idly blasting at a couple of saucers when Justin says, quietly, "You were just doing your job."  
  
"I know," Nick says, tensing as he ducks behind a dumpster to avoid a baby laser beam. "It doesn't mean I fucking like it."  
  
"Yeah," Justin says. "The hovercraft just released a fresh wave of robots. Stay close to the dumpster."  
  
Despite himself, Nick snorts. "Copy that."  
  
"You know, the normal human reaction--"  
  
" _Fuck_ normal," Nick says, twisting vehemently around to shoot another flying saucer out of the sky. "I'm a human stun gun fighting flying saucers in the middle of fucking Queens. What part of that is - Jesus, Justin, I've _never_ \--I don't _want_ normal."  
  
"Duck," Justin says, and then, "Yeah, I guess normal doesn't really come with the job."  
  
It's quiet for a minute, and Nick looks up at the three saucers circling him overhead. He takes them out, one after the other. "Maybe it wasn't just about the job," he admits, eventually. "On the Colton mission. It didn't feel like it was just about the job."  
  
"I'm starting to get that," Justin says, just as quiet. "We've both been pretty stupid about this, I think."  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ, Timberlake," Lance interrupts, and Nick almost sends a blast of electricity into a nearby window. "Fucking _finally_. If I got one more text about how Nick was in your bed, and 'oh my god, Lance, he's _so hot_ , why won't he love me,' blah blah fucking _blah_ \--"  
  
There's an unmistakable thud - _definitely_ the Hulk, this time - and Justin almost sounds embarrassed when he says, "Get off my fucking comm line, Bass."  
  
"Drama queen," Lance tuts, smugly pleased. "Dibs on telling Fury. And Sitwell. And Richardson."  
  
" _Jesus_ , Lance--"  
  
But Lance is already gone, and Nick's left struggling not to laugh.  
  
"Incoming," Justin says, hesitantly, after a moment of silence. "Seven o' cl--"  
  
Nick fires a couple of blasts over his shoulder. "You texted Lance."  
  
Justin barely hides his groan. "Don't start."  
  
"You," Nick says, feeling--something, rise in his chest. Something light and warm and _gleeful_. "You sent Lance _morning after_ texts."  
  
"You thought I was kidnapped."  
  
"I thought you were kidnapped," Nick agrees easily, taking another couple of saucers out of the sky. "And I fucked up a mission, threatened Lance, and tried to drag Fury into it."  
  
It takes a second, but then Justin's laughing too. "You're fucking insane."  
  
"You should probably be a little bit insulted," Nick concedes, grinning.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind." Justin pauses. "Thor just took out the Manhattan hovercraft. Go for the gantry on the right."  
  
"So we're almost done here," Nick says preemptively, still feeling that strange, unfamiliar lightness in his chest, nothing like the electric hum in his skin, thrilling in an entirely new way. "How do you wanna celebrate?"  
  
Justin laughs again, low and dirty and full of promise. "Wrap it up, Buzzkill, and when you come back to base, I'll show you."


End file.
